


Victory Feast

by rile



Series: Good Eating [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Asexual Character, BDSM, Choking, Implied 24/7 BDSM, M/M, PWP, Post-Time Skip, RACK - Freeform, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Trans Characters, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:35:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23933914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rile/pseuds/rile
Summary: Saying Omi is sweet isn't exactly right. Living with the bastard has shown Atsumu that—but sweet is still the only word that comes to mind. Sweet like the burn of a torn muscle post workout, sweet like pressing an ice pack against bruised ribs, bruised thighs, bruised wrists. Sweet like something so bitter you can't help but ask for more.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: Good Eating [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1829455
Comments: 7
Kudos: 201





	Victory Feast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pseudoanalytics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudoanalytics/gifts).



> This was inspired by LOVELY fanart by quip and edited by the ever patient meta. Follow them both on twitter (ﾉ≧∀≦)ﾉ
> 
> twitter.com/newttxt  
> twitter.com/metaandpotatoes

Saying Omi is sweet isn't exactly right. Living with the bastard has shown Atsumu that—but sweet is still the only word that comes to mind. Sweet like the burn of a torn muscle post workout, sweet like pressing an ice pack against bruised ribs, bruised thighs, bruised wrists. Sweet like something so bitter you can't help but ask for more.

Omi's aggressive, demanding—even more so when they're behind closed doors. It's almost like he believes he has a right to Atsumu's body— be it roughly palming between Atsumu’s legs after a long morning run, slapping his ass hard enough to bruise in the kitchen, or shoving him against the tiled shower wall to leave him waiting—aching— then never coming through, like the fucking bastard he is.

Every day, every hour, Atsumu is played with by Omi and today is no different. Atsumu's soaked, gone through two pairs of boxers and still his cunt won’t calm; his chest is sore, his mind is hazy. He wants to come—wants to push Omi down and ride that smirking, bullshit face of his until Atsumu's got come dripping all the way down Sakusa's cheeks and into those black, unruly locks. He wants to howl, he wants to have Sakusa so deep inside him he can feel Omi in his fucking throat—but Omi is infuriatingly chaste. A day of physically abusing him, of manipulating Atsumu into this creature of a man, and Omi has the gall to deny him right at the precipice—

Sure, Atsumu could use his own fingers, stroke his own cock until he comes, twitching and writhing, but to do so alone is to admit defeat. Omi's physicality, teasing and then withdrawing, is a challenge as much as it is an order—Atsumu isn't allowed to touch himself without Omi's permission. Omi is allowed to do whatever he wants to Atsumu throughout the day, all in an attempt to rile Atsumu up until he can't help himself—allowed to do whatever Omi wants to try and make Atsumu crack.

Atsumu’s victory comes in the evening when Sakusa climbs into bed behind him, snakes an arm up Atsumu's chest and wraps his hand around Atsumu's throat and squeezes. Victory comes when Sakusa bites Atsumu's neck with a ferocity that borders on too much—but Atsumu can't cry out, not with Omi choking him. Already, Atsumu's thighs are shaking, twitching, his hips jumping back against the pan of Sakusa's, seeking out any kind of satisfaction— 

Omi settles Atsumu by stuffing a hand between Atsumu's legs and pushing two of his long, callused fingers into where Atsumu is wet and open and ready. Lungs burning, Atsumu is pinned, held against Omi's body. Atsumu feels owned, feels possessed, and shit, he could come just from this alone, especially when Omi's palm keeps rubs against Atsumu's stiff clit, when Omi bends his freakish hands to push down the hood with his thumb and press his nail against the sensitive nub.

The hand around his throat relaxes just as Atsumu's vision begins to tunnel. Atsumu immediately inhales, shaking and gagging on the exhale, but he’s not allowed to curl over: Omi presses his fingers against Atsumu's sternum to keep him in place. The lightest of touches feel as solid as metal restraints- Atsumu shakes and presses his cunt down against Omi's palm, helpless to do anything but. "Please—" Atsumu's voice is hoarse, pleading, unrecognizable to his own burning ears. Pride should stop him from begging, from sounding so pathetic, but here, under Sakusa, he is nothing but Sakusa's to own. 

Omi is wordless as he curls his fingers inside Atsumu, working more and more humiliating noises from Atsumu's cunt, and Omi is wordless as he returns his hand around Atsumu's throat. Atsumu is close to tears—he can feel his legs kick at the bed, his own nails scratch at Sakusa's back and forearm as if scared; but he can see into Sakusa's eyes, the darkness overwhelming— 

It's only in moments like this that Atsumu can admit his love, when his pride has been ripped away and Omi is above him, inside him, owning him. He thinks that Omi is the same, because it's not disgust on Omi's face despite the spit and tears soaking Atsumu's face, despite the come that has slicked up to Omi's wrist. What's on Omi's face is something so intense, so passionate, that Atsumu can't look away. He's mouthing—please, please, please—and Omi stops him with a kiss, feral, more teeth than lip, but neither of them care. 

Spots begin to burst into his vision and his lungs burn with the tightening of Sakusa's hand; all Atsumu can do is twist his body in an agonizing pattern against the sheets and against Omi's form. White static fills his ears, throbbing with his heartbeat—faster, faster— and even with his eyes wide open he can't see through the rush. Sakusa's fingers press up, curling against Atsumu's pelvic wall and that soft, spongey place inside—and then Atsumu is coming and coming, his cunt clenching down against Sakusa's fingers, his clit swollen and twitching where it stands tall and engorged. Atsumu is on fire, and even being able to breathe again doesn't quench him.

Omi's fingers are always cruel, always demanding, and they don't release Atsumu from his orgasm's grasp, forcing each trembling aftershock into another crest, stringing orgasm after orgasm as if this is what his fingers were made for. Atsumu yells as he squirts all over Omi's chest and arm. His body spasms—he knees Omi in the side side with flailing legs, claws at Omi's hips, his sides, and Atsumu feels feral, his voice more animal than human. 

Still, Omi doesn't stop. He squeezes Atsumu's clit punishingly and all but punches into Atsumu cunt, determined to make Atsumu squeal.

Atsumu loses count of how many orgasms Omi pulls from him. He whites out half way through, he's sure, and when Omi finally extracts his fingers, Atsumu has gone halfway up the bed, trying to escape from those wicked fingers. He feels like he's just been fucked stupid. The idea of closing his legs, of cleaning up, of doing anything except lay there panting as he finally begins to come down, is futile. Omi— the one who hates mess— is the one that slowly arranges Atsumu's limbs into a comfortable position and wipes between his legs with a warm, damp cloth. Omi is the one who braves all the bodily fluids and presses a fleeting kiss to Atsumu's temple. 

"Y'er awful," Atsumu slurs around a thick tongue, eyes closed. Keeping his eyes open seems like too much of a challenge. His body is shivering, but Omi’s hand runs across Atsumu's ribs and helps to calm down the shakes. "'M barely feelin' my legs." 

Atsumu can picture Omi's self-satisfied smirk, that aggravating expression where Omi just knows he won. Grumbling out his complaints, Atsumu burrows into the blanket that Sakusa has pulled from the floor. It only takes a moment from Sakusa to join, his chest warm and damp from where he's washed himself, fingers pruned as they trace lines on Atsumu's shoulders.

Part of Atsumu thinks he feels bad; he doesn't know what Omi gets out of this, out of sex and making Atsumu come so hard he nearly passes out. Omi's medications have tanked his libido, making him barely interested in coming and making an orgasm beyond difficult to reach when he does feel like putting in the effort—but Omi likes sex, apperently, and he likes making Atsumu scream. It's not that sex is boring, or triggering, or dysphopric, or anything else Atsumu thought it may have been in the beginging—it's just how Omi is. Making Atsumu feel good is enough for Omi, somehow. Enough to satisfy what drive Omi does have.

Atsumu knows not to touch Sakusa—Sakusa doesn't particularly like to be touched, prefers to be the one who touches—but when Atsumu leans closer to Omi's shoulder, Sakusa shifts them both so Atsumu can lay against Sakusa's pale chest. 

"You're the one who got come in my hair," Sakusa grouses. He curls a hot palm against the back of Atsumu's neck, just above where a ring of bruises must already be forming. "You're the awful one." Sakusa's tone is biting, but Atsumu knows it well. He smiles. 

Every victory should be this sweet.


End file.
